Misguided Bullets
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: A Master and Commander fic (movie version only). Jack has to face some serious thoughts when Stephen is shot.


Summary:  Jack's thoughts when Stephen is shot.

A/N:  Wow, I haven't posted anything in a way long time.  Somehow I just got so busy…hmm…maybe this will get me motivated to tackle some of the longer stories I'm working on for various other fandoms…who knows.  But I didn't expect to like this movie very much, but my boyfriend really wanted to see it.  I was pleasantly surprised and it kind of lingered in my head so I sat down on day and wrote this little piece.  I didn't spend a lot of time doing the editing thing—I do too much of that for school that when it comes to leisure writing, sometimes I just don't have it in me!  Anyway, if you like it, go ahead and review.  Thanks!

Disclaimer:  I don't own anything….I'm just procrastinating by playing with other people's toys.  Anything is better than getting ready for finals….

Misguided Bullets

            How silly it seemed; to be shooting at a wayward bird but hitting Stephen instead.  That was no way to die, no way to be injured.  There was no glorious battle, no heroic measures.  Just a misguided bullet fired from a careless gun.

            There, on the deck, Jack Aubrey realized all the fears he had been brooding over.  His insecurities about this near-quixotic quest sidled deep within him where the crew could not see.  He was indeed lucky; his nickname was well-deserved.  A man who knows no failure is too often a fool who is blessed by a sovereign hand.  Yet he knew the Lord almighty punished His chosen people for their divided hearts.  They would stumble through their journeys, one eye on the greater good, but one eye always straying after the desires of their hearts.  

Never in his career had he felt so uncertain of a mission.  Still, a world built upon the structure of command would not be held together by reality, but by the promises and reassurances of a commander.  He was so used to downplaying his questions to the crew, that sometimes he barely remembered to consider them for himself.  But his stomach churned, bringing them to the surface, with the crack of the gun.

            However, the nagging sense of failure, impending doom, was not what had hold over him.  It was the doubt of his actions and his motivations—they did smack of pride.  The crew would take it as confidence, but Stephen did not take things at face value; that was not his nature.  As with most things, Stephen could see it for what it truly was and followed it, hoping to rein it in.

            But Jack hadn't wanted to catch these truths and examine them.  He wanted to kill them, slay them on the deck as he would a military foe.  As they evaded him, his shots to take them down grew wild.  He barely even saw Stephen until it was too late.  He had spoken the words in the privacy of his cabin.  It had been a thoughtless shot, but one he could never take back despite all the prayers of absolution he might utter.

            Stephen's eyes had blazed with more surprise than hurt.  And Jack had let his wounded friend go down without assistance.  As Stephen slammed the door shut behind him, Jack felt himself tremble, staring blankly at the back of his cabin's door.

            Since he had not been shooting bullets in his cabin he had more luck justifying himself.  But the sound of the gun on deck reminded him of his guilt.  The tangible bullet threatened Stephen's mortal life, but the emotional wound ran far deeper and threatened something far more vital to both of them—their friendship.

            The bird fluttered away.  Stephen leaned hard against the rail.  His strength gave out and he crumbled to the deck.  The crew was paralyzed and dumb.  Each crewman—the officers, the enlisted men, the marines—hinged on his reaction.  It was no secret that Stephen was not only the ship's doctor but also their captain's close friend.  Jack's legs moved like rubber as he rushed to Stephen's fallen side.

            As Stephen moved his hand away, there was blood.  So the wound was real. 

            Jack tried to remember the scrapes he had led them through.  In all of those, how many bullet wounds had Stephen treated?  How many had died despite Stephen's meticulous care?

            Jack could feel Stephen trembling.  A sheen of sweat listened on his face.  The color had washed from him face.  Jack could feel his own breathing hitch uneasy, matching unconsciously the tumultuous rise and fall of Stephen's heaving chest.  The terrible reality ebbed at Jack's control.  He tried to act like a captain and not a friend, though his act was meager and unnecessary.  Still, he could not afford to let himself seem human to the men.  Not at a time like this.  Not when it meant admitting how unsure he was of everything.

            Stephen was his vulnerability.  But Stephen was also his sanity and strength.  Sailing without him never seemed as complete and he never felt as sure without Stephen's incessant prodding.

            The marine apologized again and again, with profusion.  Stephen did not acknowledge it.  The crew watched now in hesitant yet sadistic fascination.  As a doctor, Stephen had seemed invincible.  He was a healer—the only healer.  Bleeding on the deck, who would help him?

            Stephen tried to keep his face set, but his eyes betrayed him.  As Jack kept Stephen's gaze, it was the hurt more than the surprise this time.

            Jack knew why Stephen could not hear the apologies.  He knew why he could not hear or see the crew murmuring and watching on expectantly.  For they could remove the bullet and the wound might heal without infection, but disease of poisoned friendship ran fervently through his veins from a barb that only a best friend can inflict.

            The surgery would be risky; it may come too late or it may cost him a measure of pride.  Jack had always been uncompromising when it came to pride and solidarity.  It was the reason they had cut a man off at sea, the reason he couldn't be sure if he regretted Hollum's death, the reason he was on this quest in the first place.

            But the look in Stephen's eyes.  The utter surprise at Jack's insensitivity.  The deep hurt, not only from the bullet that rested within his abdomen, but from betrayal of a friend.  If Stephen should die…Jack would not think it.  He could not.  But what was Stephen's presence on the ship if not as his best friend and confidante?  Stephen was not merely a doctor; Jack would never allow himself to make that mistake.

            Stephen's trembling fingers pulled at his shirt, trying to gauge the severity of the wound.  His wandering gaze sought anything but Jack's eyes.

            Jack cursed himself.  Was he not human after all?  Under the bravado, the larger-than-life image, was he not just a man?  A man who had forgotten to be a friend.

            He had already made the mistake, but his image ran deep and filled out every inch of him.  An apology was just words.  Stephen surely knew that.

            A bird is just a bird, flying around the deck.  And a man is just a man, with insatiable curiosity.

            A gun is just a gun, used in war to defend and conquer.  And a bullet is just a bullet, lodged in his best friend's stomach.

            Death is just death, cold and silent for those left behind.

            It didn't seem silly anymore.


End file.
